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Page 347
far, a victor. Alinor had great pride. She would not enjoy seeing her husband die, but she would not enjoy seeing him tumbled into the dirt, either.
Since Ian's thoughts were conducive neither to ease of mind nor to lightness of spirit, it was just as well that the King's champion was called for soon after the dying knight had been carried from the field. Owain was ready with a lance, muttering grimly that if this one did not hold he would skewer himself on the blunt end. Ian managed to smile and say it was not Owain's fault, but his mind was not on his squire. He found himself ridiculously nervous, just as he had been the first time he had jousted at a tourney. He was not frightened in the sense that he was afraid of being hurt or dying; he was nervous of making a fool of himself, of doing something that would arouse contemptuous laughter.
So fixed was Ian's mind on the various stupidities that had moved him to laugh at inexperienced knights, that he very nearly committed the most gauche of all on his first run. He aimed his lance so poorly that it caught in his opponent's and was nearly wrenched from his grip. He did hold on to the weapon and, presumably, the watchers thought he had tried some tricky refinement that had not worked, because there was no laughter. Ian felt his face grow hot beneath his helmet, but his shame was a private matter. Whether embarrassment would have led to further awkwardness, Ian never discovered. On the second run he realized why his lance had not been wrenched away. For sheer incompetence, no other rider he had seen that day matched his present opponent. His guard was awry; his seat in the saddle was terrible; in fact, he should never have been allowed on the field. What idiot had knighted this idiot?
Diverted completely from any fear of incompetence, Ian inserted his lance cleverly between the man's body

 
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